So much was stolen at such a young age the mourning of a certain life lost goes on, the life that would have been— lived whole, centered, calm, and joyful.
My body performed the motions of living, but not in one piece, not as if feeling what was happening or connected to it. My body performed what my head told it to robotically.
Connecting to others? Not possible. My being moved along frantically, disoriented, always at the ready for sudden danger. Now in later life some pieces discovered have been put back in place. Others gone forever, taken at age eight during the first attack.
But mourning is not my choice any longer, having done it till no tears are left for the past. That takes time, washing the wounds of a traumatic childhood. Going back, looking at just how hard it was, causes an appreciation of what’s inside me.
So it had a purpose, but not to drag me back into that mire staying stuck. Life’s journey opened new horizons, vistas of plenty with peace settling in where the ragged parts were.